Clarity of Ice
by Taelle
Summary: Helcaraxe and memories of fire.


Clarity of Ice  
  
Author: Marina (taelle@mail.rcom.ru)  
  
Pairing: Maedhros/Fingon (implied)  
  
Archive: yes  
  
Rating: PG-13, at most  
  
Dislaimers: This story uses characters and  
universe belonging to J.R.R.Tolkien. They  
characters are not used for profit. Please view my  
story as a respectful comment on the work of a  
beloved writer.  
  
Summary: Helcaraxe and memories of fire  
  
-----------------------------  
  
Elenwe started to die long before that ice patch  
broke under her. She just slipped into dream and  
never really came back.  
  
We noticed it much later, when on the side of our  
main road the ice started moving. Suddenly Idril  
cried out. Turgon ran to the sound of her voice. I  
followed.  
  
What we saw almost made me freeze. The moving  
surface shifted the great blocks of ice and the  
whole area quickly turned into a deadly trap.  
Heavy lumps of ice began falling down on the  
frozen ground already covered by a web of tiny  
cracks. Some of these started to widen, opening  
the still dark water underneath.  
  
And in the middle of this chaos were two pale  
golden-haired figures that could be seen clearly  
only on the background of black water — Elenwe and  
Idril. The girl cried, tugging her mother's hand,  
trying to find something for them to cling to. But  
Elenwe's movements were painfully slow. It seemed  
that she did not care what was going on around  
her. The crack widened again and they started  
slipping down. Turgon cried out and tried to run  
there, but we held him back. Two young elves  
started a slow and careful approach without almost  
any hope to get there in time.  
  
Elenwe and Idril were already falling into the  
darkness when the water itself rose. Flailing her  
hands desperately, Idril managed to cling to an  
overhanging block and stayed there long enough for  
the rescuers to reach her.  
  
But Elenwe did not move. A spot of gold and white  
on the black of the water, she sank back with the  
sudden wave, and the surface was calm and unbroken  
again. Of Elenwe there was no trace.  
  
Turgon did not want to believe. He stayed there.  
He called her. He sang her favourite songs. There  
was no answer from the freezing water. Turgon did  
not even notice when the crack started to close.  
We wanted to drag him away, but did not dare to  
come closer. He seemed as cold and unreachable as  
the dark water where Elenwe finally found rest.  
  
At last he stood up, looked at the small patch of  
water still seen through the ice and went off.  
Somebody called him, and he looked back with  
unseeing eyes. "Let's go! Let's hurry!" he said.  
"Our kinfolk waits for us in Arda, do they not?"  
Then he turned away again and went straight ahead.  
  
I sent Idril to stop him. She ran after her  
father, crying, asking him to wait. I looked  
around. The same ice everywhere. Mountains and  
rocks of ice and clear patches in between. Not  
much to remember the place, now that the cracks  
were closed again. Elenwe was not the first to  
die, and all we had to remeber our dead by was  
ice. Empty ice.  
  
We had to almost run to catch up with Turgon.  
"What are you doing, brother?" I asked him. "Too  
many of our people died on ice. Will you make more  
of them drop down because of your hurry?"  
  
He looked at me and smiled. "We will stay as we  
are," he said. "Nobody else will die, and we will  
all hurry to Arda where our kin is." And I saw the  
reflection of the fire in his eyes, the fire  
kindled from the white ships of Alqualonde far  
ahead over all this ice. But there was no warmth  
in that fire.  
  
I started forgetting about warmth though. Light  
from the Trees, warmth of out homes, all seemed  
unreal. Long past.  
  
And it was truly past, even if we could never  
really forget. The Trees died. Our homes were far  
behind. There was only ice, endless clear ice.  
Nowhere to rest. Nowhere to hide.  
  
I wanted to hide. Hide from tiredness in the faces  
of our people. From the look in Aredhel's eyes,  
longing for the freedom of the forests. From  
Turgon's strained voice, urging everyone to move  
faster, only becoming softer when talking to  
Idril. But most of all I wanted to hide from  
myself.  
  
Only there was no hiding. My soul managed to  
become as empty and clear as the ice of Helcaraxe.  
I saw my own anger and pain reflected in this  
clarity. At times it was no less than Turgon's,  
though I cannot claim such losses as his. How  
could that happen? How could they leave us?  
  
And I still see reproach in Turgon's eyes. He  
never said anything, but it's there. I see it. "It  
was you," his eyes say. "*You* insisted on going.  
*You* persuaded father and many others. You. You.  
We wouldn't be there if not for you, though you  
claim to dislike Feanor."  
  
I do dislike him. These ice fields are so barren —  
even Maglor, I'm sure, would find here nothing to  
sing about. Not that I'll be able to ask him any  
time soon. So I hide from this emptiness in the  
flimsy haven of my own soul, asking myself endless  
questions, examining everything I've ever believed  
in. And I still find Feanor too stubborn, arrogant  
and conceited to like. But is liking or disliking  
one particular elf the right reason for deciding  
the fate of our people?  
  
Maybe it is. Maybe we started the journey for some  
other reasons, be it distrusting the Valar or  
looking for new lands to take as our own. But why  
do we go on? Right now I cannot think about any  
distant lands. All my world is Helcaraxe, endless  
ice and the distant fire still burning in my  
memory.  
  
I won't forget the moment I saw this fire. None of  
us will; but I think I was the last one to  
understand. To believe it really happened. "They  
aren't coming back for us," Turgon said. "Do you  
hear me, Fingon? They aren't coming back!". And I  
just looked at him, unable to comprehend his  
words. He was yelling, I noticed detachedly. Why  
was he yelling?  
  
Even after I understood, I could not think about  
it. Right. There's a fire ahead. They aren't  
coming back. He isn't coming. Why? Where is he?  
Where is Maedhros?  
  
I used to love the fire. Flames made me think of  
him. There's a moment when a flame has the exact  
coppery tint of Maedhros's hair. He was always  
close then. Since we were children he came every  
day, or I went to see him. Often I found him in  
his grandfather's smithy, staring into the flames  
in fascination, watching Mahtan work. And I  
watched him, standing in the doorway, afraid to  
call him. He seemed a part of the flames, a  
visitor out of this fiery eternal dance who could  
disappear again if I made a sudden move. Then, of  
course, he turned and smiled, seeing me there. Off  
we went, and I had no need of any other fire when  
he was there.  
  
And now there's only ice around. Fire became a  
memory. A bad memory. Why didn't Maedhros become a  
bad memory too? How can my soul keep him separate  
from all this?  
  
I think now that for a long time after we saw that  
fire Turgon looked at me with pity. Back then I  
only noticed he looked strange, as if he wanted to  
tell me something but always changed his mind.  
Maybe he pitied me for believing. For still  
wanting to follow.  
  
It doesn't really matter now. Turgon tries to look  
straight ahead only, and doesn't say anything. Why  
imagine what he wanted to say? Why invent answers?  
When I look clearly into my soul, though, I know  
that I do not argue with Turgon but with myself.  
  
Do I blame myself? I suppose I do. How could I not  
blame myself, looking into the tired faces of my  
friends, seeing Turgon's determined gaze. But I do  
not blame him. I cannot.  
  
He is the last bright flame in my soul, much  
brighter than the fires ahead, the fires of  
betrayal. I am able to forget about these because  
the flame of memory still burns in me. It keeps me  
warm among all this ice, not letting me become ice  
too. It reminds me that I am still alive. 


End file.
